


Seasons of Sex

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dominance, Double Penetration, F/M, Fluff, Holmes brothers rivalry, Incest, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Seasons, Sexual Content, Threesome - F/M/M, established relationships - Freeform, original female character can be anyone, set in series one, sexually confident Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock have had a little arrangement with a 'friend' now for a while. Sherlock is searching for answers, whilst Mycroft is trying to tell said friend how he really feels, but will either of them get what they want? Not to mention what does this said friend along with John Watson have to say about it all?





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks for all of your support! :) As usual it is much appreciated. I am working on editing a longer piece, so thought you could have this in the meantime. Hope you're all doing well. :)

Mycroft likes the before. The being able to appear outwardly as a gentleman in his three-piece suit, as he carries his umbrella and moves around at work, but being able to be equally smug on the inside too as he anticipates what is to come later. 

 

He has one tell though-a bounce in his step that like a lamb in a meadow he just can’t conceal. Sometimes he hums like a songbird, but it is the perkiness in his walk that will give the game away if it is anything. 

 

On such a day when he feels inclined to do all those things Anthea looks at him strangely. It is not a time to think of Anthea now however, but rather of a different female and of later. Always of her and later, so that’s what Mycroft does. 

 

Later he arrives at her house. Still maintaining the appearance of a dignified gentleman in case he is noticed by one of her neighbours he carries a bouquet of large flowers to symbolize the summer that they will be creating together. Though how the neighbours can really think of him as a gentleman and her as a lady when he knows full well that the walls of her house are not so thick to obscure the sounds that they’ll be making together later is something that he doesn’t know. It’s a thought that stops him sometimes…but not for very long. Not when there’s her and later. Sometimes he thinks that without them there would be little hope in the world. In _his_ anyway. 

 

She accepts the flowers gratefully. It is his lucky day because she smiles at him and it is the shy one and not the knowing. Sometimes when he is away from her his heart trembles inside his chest when he thinks of _that_ smile. The way that it seems to come from beneath her somehow. It is so very precious to him. 

 

He is exceptionally lucky today because his brother is late, giving her a chance to pour the wine-red like the blood that he’ll be drawing close to her skin later-and allow him to observe her for a few moments without her knowing that he’s doing so. He savours the moment. This moment of her being so fixed upon her task that he can watch the concentration in her eyes, the way that her nose curves out from the shadow of her hair, the delicious skin that she doesn’t even realize is so beautiful, all without her even realizing. But he does. He sees everything. 

 

She turns to him and hands him his glass. Their fingers catch against each other’s because he really is doing well tonight. It’s just a quick touch, but a promise of the passion of later. He nods his thanks to her. Their eyes lock. He gestures for her to lead the way. She brushes against him and she cannot know it, but it makes him shiver tonight like it does so every time. His hand-because he is feeling brave and how ironic it is that he finds sex easy and these slow, delicate touches more difficult-goes to her back, supporting her and she looks at him now, offering him another half-smile he can cherish. 

 

They move into the living room and sit down, perching on separate armchairs that are adjacent to one another. The silent music plays between them as they wait. They keep up their appearance of being a gentleman and a lady through sipping at their wine and making small talk. He values every word that comes from her mouth, no matter how simple. It is amazing how he has to wander far down into the dusty, dull basement of his mind palace for policy details and facts that he needs to know on a day to day basis in work, but that a simple comment or piece of her history will blow out into the breeze like pollen and bloom in the garden for all to see. He walks through the rows of flowers that she creates and tends to them from time to time, _reminisces._ The bright daffodils from the way that she makes him laugh and feel warm inside, the drooping lilies from whenever she is unhappy or annoyed, the buds of the reddest rose, which grow with his love for her. For that is a fact that he cannot ignore every time he sits there. 

 

He cannot ignore it now and as his mind touches upon it again his brother arrives, as he is inclined to do so at the most inopportune time. She smiles at him, as the doorbell rings, almost sadly as if they have just lost the chance for something or as if she’d been particularly enjoying his company that day. He hopes that she does so, even if she only does so sometimes. 

 

He rises and makes a sound of similar disappointment. She touches at his arm as she goes past. It makes him anticipate what will be happening imminently all the more. 

 

He waits for her as she answers the door with his body beginning to thrum. Sherlock kisses her on both cheeks on the doorstep and then brings in a bottle of wine, as if they all might be having a meal together, but they won’t be getting tipsy on the wine tonight. 

 

As he stands there frozen in the living room he listens to the rumbling of his brother’s voice and her lighter, softer tone and lets them have a little time alone together in the kitchen-it is only polite to do so he finds, after all things will be happening between his brother and her later on too. Then, after only a moment or two because that is all that he can bear, he goes and fetches them. With one curt nod he gets the whole process underway. 

 

She leads the way to the bedroom. Sherlock follows after her, his eyes roaming down as he tries to get into the right mood and Mycroft, not needing such encouragement himself, loses any nerve that he still has about telling her how his feelings run deeper than sex. That he wants more quiet moments with her. A lifetime in fact. 

 

The bedroom door closes behind them. And then- _And then!_


	2. During

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's got a very unusual case to solve...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the fun happens! ;)

Sherlock enjoys the during. The collecting of clues and the excitement of putting a case together has always been the most appealing part to him after all. It is no different here. 

 

The slow, simmering passion that builds once they've all undressed is like being presented with a new case, a puzzle to solve. As he traces her skin with his tongue it is like re-calling a memory that he’d almost forgotten. A memory, which will help to finally solve the case. He hasn’t done so, so far. Not in all of the encounters that they've had together. But maybe he will be able to do so tonight. For the curves of her are like a fragment that all connect together if only he could find the correct way for them all to interlink. He will get something soon though he knows it. Feels sure of it. In fact they are almost at last one whole in his head when they shatter because of Mycroft. His brother, like he can be on any normal case, proves not only to be an obstacle here, but also a competitor. 

 

Sherlock withdraws and analyses. The room swirls before him, a fog of choked pants and pleading whimpers. Her cries are like a message to the Gods. The heat builds and builds inside him until, wanting more and to be able to bite into the juicy fruit that’s before him, which is the only thing that can fully satiate him now and at the same time send him sky high like a drug, he moves forwards. 

 

His brother makes a warning noise, deep and primal within his throat. He abandons her already nipped at and decorated body to tussle with him on the bed. Sherlock lets Mycroft pin his wrists down and hover over him for one threatening moment. Then, satisfied that this show of dominance has worked Mycroft moves back to her, never being able to leave her side for very long, as he murmurs his apologies to her. He angles himself so that he’s mostly covering her. 

 

Sherlock is careful now, but he doesn’t withdraw again. Instead slowly he twists around, almost on his stomach as he places a sensual hand upon her leg. Like the sun she pulses beneath him and twitches ever so slightly. Mycroft grunts, but aside from pulling her more towards him with a firm hand that’s upon her waist, whilst he attends to her neck, he allows his brother to start joining in with the game more thoroughly. 

 

Sherlock, growing more confident now, finds his way again, his hands roaming across her skin like thousands of threads that all come together. 

 

She’s been gasping and bucking underneath his brother’s touch, hands clinging firmly either side of Mycroft’s head, but now she pushes him off her and turns to Sherlock instead. He receives her gratefully like a man who finds water in the desert, but his brother growls out at this disobedience and chooses to enter her from behind. 

 

She writhes, squeezing her eyes shut. Mycroft’s teeth find her shoulder as he pushes into her further. They scrape across and make her moan. Not wanting to be outdone and feeling competitive now himself Sherlock slides into her front. Her eyes pop open, a signal that things are starting to come together, and Sherlock, loving this moment like all the times he has done so previously, holds onto them with his as he begins to move inside her. His thrusts are like feet slapping against a wet pavement after a criminal and slowly the sight of her begins to disappear before his very eyes. This has not happened before and he feels a mixture of both feverish excitement and intrigue. He must hold onto this moment! Just about managing to do so he sees John. _John,_ who all this practice is ultimately for he suddenly realizes, and as he reaches the sun the bursting bright light blinds him. The unexpected resolution of the case makes his mouth go slack. She comes soon after, then Mycroft does so in quick succession, and as their bodies all quiver together as one, like leaves falling down from a tree, autumn begins.


	3. After: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is different. Something is the same.

She likes the afterwards. When sated they just lie there, skin bruising like autumn fruit gathered too late for the harvest and legs and arms intertwining like tree branches. When there’s no jealousy between them, just her in the middle and Mycroft and Sherlock on either side, holding her. When they all become part of one another. It is like that tonight. Just normal. 

 

She sees the sweat glistening in Sherlock’s tousled dark curls like rainwater. The way that the dim light of the room slices his cheekbones, chopping his face into quarters. His eyes are normally shut, savouring what has just occurred, but tonight they are open and he looks shocked about something. His soft breaths hit her like a continues gale. She frowns, but it is like he is not looking at her, but rather _through_ her, so she twists around. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes gleam in the dark like starlight across the Thames. It’s as if he knows that there’s been a change in his brother tonight and knows that it might bring him closer to what he wants, though he doesn’t know what the difference has been. It gives him hope though and he studies her approvingly for a moment, before he smiles lazily, the curve of his lips like an eclipse. He seems more normal to her and she takes comfort from it. The bridge of his nose, as ever, is so tempting to kiss. 

 

But this is after now and the autumn of their lovemaking is giving way to winter. She closes her eyes, succumbing to the pull of sleep and feeling _so_ very safe. 

 

When she wakes to a room that’s full of light and ruffled sheets only a single memory remains. That of her head being gently coaxed against Mycroft’s chest and Sherlock’s arm sloppily moving around her waist as they’d shifted like logs in a river. That had been just before she’d drifted off. But Mycroft and Sherlock are gone now. This is different. Usually they’d stay and their bodies would be entwined until morning. 

 

Little does she know that this one time that had felt like any other has been the last.


	4. After: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most important words can finally be said.

A whistle would usually sound its way down the semi-lit Baker Street after such an occasion, but not tonight. Sherlock feels a little guilty for leaving in such a hurry and thinks that he’ll have to apologize to her some other time, but he has to do this. The fear that he has inside himself about it already being too late won’t allow for anything else. He walks quickly, whilst he tries to tidy up his tousled hair. It doesn’t work. If anything he just makes it even messier. If a person looked around now at this man who's walking quickly in the shadows of London beneath the navy sky they wouldn't necessarily know what season it is. It could be spring or even winter judging by the puddles that are on the ground. Sherlock just takes faith from the fact that it’s not raining any more. It makes him feel hopeful somehow. He arrives home and unlocks the door of 221B. All is silent and still in the hallway, which is cast in shadow, but he can hear that Mrs. Hudson’s radio is still on. She pretends not to be staying up for him, but she always does. He knows that she’ll be going to bed now and feels thankful for the fact. He takes off his coat and hangs it up, before he turns to face the front again. He can see light spilling down and curving around the corner of the stairs. It seems to reach out to him and swallowing Sherlock makes his way up there. 

 

John is sitting in his usual armchair. Sherlock sees the doctor’s hand and arm first-the former looking scuffed from his wartime days, as it stretches out of a burgundy cardigan-before he sees the rest of him. The expression on John’s face looks thoughtful and weary. All of the lines on his face remind Sherlock of this fact and suddenly he feels like a fool. Of course he’s too late. He feels even more of an idiot when the doctor says, “No whistling tonight?” Sherlock realizes that he should not have made him wait for so long, but feels determined to make amends for it. Their eyes meet. Sherlock’s ask for peace, but John’s seem to be urging for combat. “I take it you were at _her’s_ tonight with your brother?” he spits the words out venomously. 

 

“Yes.” Sherlock feels guilty. He unwraps his blue scarf from around his neck now and drapes it over the back of his own armchair. The moon peers through the window at them like a nosy old woman and thank God Mrs. Hudson can’t see them right now or she really _would_ have something to say! “Were you at-?” _Clare’s? Cassandra’s?_ What’s her name’s house? Sherlock tries to gauge what he’s dealing with here and his face scrunches up as he does so. 

 

 _“No,”_ comes the curt response. It lashes through the air towards Sherlock like the east wind. 

 

“Right.” Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels for a second, before he loses his nerve and goes off to make some tea. He clinks two of the cups together in invitation. John doesn’t respond, so Sherlock makes him some anyway in that old military cup of his. Whilst it’s brewing he announces, “I won’t be going there again.”

 

“No? Had a falling out did you? Well, I suppose that it was only a matter of time with that kind of set-up.” John is waspish and sarcastic now, but Sherlock feels a slither of hope inside him. There had been a tension to his friend’s tone, as if he’d been teetering over the edge of something. 

 

After Sherlock finishes the process of making the tea and takes the cups over to the table it is to find that John’s sitting right back in his armchair again, eyes closed. Sherlock smiles and as he does so he finds that courage once more. He puts the cups down quietly and begins, “I realized that what I’ve been doing all this time is an experiment. I came to the conclusion of it tonight.” 

 

“Good for you,” John is once again trying to be blustery and to push him away by not only saying that, but also by wriggling in his chair with his eyes still resolutely shut. Sherlock can tell that as usual though he’s secretly interested in what he’s got to say. 

 

“I think you’ll want to hear about this one.” Sherlock tiptoes over there now and crouches down, releasing a wavery breath. He reaches one hand towards John’s cheek and slowly inches his face forwards. Lips nor fingertips make the touch, before John’s eyes open again. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asks in a voice that is low and cautious, before he only half-jokes, “I hope that the result of your little experiment wasn’t the idea that you wouldn't have to go around there again because you could get what you do there, _here.”_ Something about John looks like he’s close to the precipice once more. “You’ll have to go back there if that’s the case.” His eyes flick down from Sherlock’s face to the arm of the chair and then back again now. 

 

“Will I?” Sherlock’s voice drops to a lower octave. 

 

“Yeah.” That’s all John says, but his eyes do the talking for him when they dip down to Sherlock’s lips. Slowly this time Sherlock tries again. The tips of his long fingers touch at John’s tanned skin. John shifts forwards ever so slightly and suddenly Sherlock is cradling and caressing at his cheek. He looks at his friend gratefully for letting him.

 

“The result that I came to was”-

 

“I know,” John says now. They both suck in a breath and then suddenly John’s kissing him or Sherlock’s kissing John, but whatever the case is the two cups get quickly forgotten about on the table. The steam from them rises up and embraces, before the air becomes clear once more.

 

*

 

“I don’t think my brother’s coming,” Mycroft says when he and she have been sitting there for over forty minutes, the conversation has slowed down and their wine is now drunk as they wait for Sherlock on another one of their planned meeting days. 

 

“No.” It is true she feels. She lowers her empty wine glass to the table, before she looks up at him again. “We could _always-?”_ She slides to the edge of her chair and raises her eyebrows at him suggestively. 

 

It is not that Mycroft doesn’t want to. To make love to her without his brother’s interference would be glorious indeed. It’s just that he wants something more now and he thinks that this might be his chance to seize it. “Might we just talk?” He regrets the words as soon as he sees the way that they slam into her face in a manner that he had not previously envisaged they would. She thinks that he is rejecting her when that couldn't be any further from the truth. 

 

“Of course,” she says, all stiff now, and she gets up jerkily and begins to collect their glasses. 

 

It pains him to watch her. He calls out her name in the hope that she’ll stop, but she ignores him, merely letting out a shuddering gasp and attempting to stumble all the more quickly out of the room. The wine glasses make one hell of a racket, as they keep clanging together. _“My dear?”_ Silence. Not knowing what to do with the term of affection he has gifted her she slowly turns to look at him. “Please.” He moves to the settee and gestures that she should sit down beside him. His heart is racing and he senses that hers is too. 

 

“One moment. I’ll just take these back.”

 

“I'm sure that they can wait.” His tone is firm now, impatient. It reminds her of his bedroom personality and her lip twitches upward for a moment in the semblance of a smile, before she looks stricken once more. “I don’t mean what you think I do. I merely wish to speak with you.” Looking a bit more reassured by that she slips back over to him and places the glasses back down, before she sits on the edge of the settee. Her hands come together. Her eyes fall to her knees. Mycroft emits a heavy breath, as he tries to gear himself up and get the words out, but this again she takes the wrong way. 

 

“Is everything all right?” She looks at him, seemingly alarmed and panicked. “I can fetch you a glass of water if you’re feeling uncomfortable or anything. It is rather warm in here today.”

 

“Yes it is,” he says somewhat gravely, before he gives her a stare that she plainly doesn’t understand. He inches forwards, tilts his knees against hers and places a hand around her two. 

 

“Let me get you that glass of water.” She brushes him off her with ease and stands. “Then I can open a window.” She steps forwards and has another thought. _“Or”-_

 

“I love you,” he forces out, quickly coming to regret that too. She looks back at him, heart in her throat, all questioning as one would expect her to be. He swallows. “I'm sorry. I know I'm not meant to. Neither of us wanted feelings when we started all of this, that was what was going to make it so simple”- he breaks off awkwardly now. He rakes a hand through his hair and looks slightly feverish, as if he’s worried that she’s going to hit him or walk away from the terms of their acquaintance altogether. He isn’t sure which one he fears the most. “I know it’s probably the last thing that you want to hear from me and I'm sorry for it just coming out in the way that it has done, but”-

 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” she says in a loud tone, whirling around now. He flinches, waiting for the onslaught and thinking miserably that he’s brought all this on himself. Her face softens and suddenly she is crouched before him and cupping at his hands with hers. “Do you mean it?”

 

He looks troubled by her question. “I can’t help it,” he admits. She stares now. _“Yes.”_ He says the rest of the conversation in his head, telling her that it’s all right if she doesn’t feel the same. He’ll just take his leave now and hope that once things settle down a bit they can still resume some sort of friendship without this having to come between them. Whilst he does not expect her to betray his feelings he’d rather that she did not mention them to anyone and they can all just-

 

 _“Wait,”_ her voice calls through his blustering thoughts and suddenly he realizes that he is on his feet and about to push past her. Her steadying hand upon his arm keeps him back. “Do you really not think that I feel the same?” She lets go of him. His lips part and then shut again. He wonders if he has heard her correctly. Almost shy now she adds, “I let you have sex with me didn't I?” There’s a spark in her eye. “I don’t just do that with anyone.”

 

“You did it with my brother too.” He is a trifle sour. 

 

The light in her dims. “That was only because”-she struggles-“He looked lost and I feel that way too a lot of the time. I-just-he’s been such a good friend to me and I couldn't turn him away if that was what he needed from me. Better that he explored that side of himself with you and me in a safe environment, that’s what I thought, then with anybody else in an _un_ safe one. _Besides,”_ she looks more uncertain now, “It was nice wasn’t it? The three of us?” Mycroft smiles thinly, as he thinks that it was. “Even if Sherlock’s moved on now and doesn’t need it any more it was nice, whilst it all lasted.” 

 

“That may be,” Mycroft admits, “But what does that mean for us now? Are we still going to see one another?” 

 

“I'm getting there.” She waves a hand at him. He shifts his position impatiently. “It was different between us though wasn’t it? At least, that’s what I hoped it was sometimes or tried to get myself to believe. Tried to get _you_ to believe too.” She looks at him a little accusingly now, as if she thinks that he’s been terribly slow on all this. If it was paperwork in his job then it should have been filed months ago. “Tried to get you to see that maybe the way that our fingers brushed together, the way that I always failed to tell Sherlock the right time that we were supposed to meet without being too obvious about it”-Mycroft’s eyes widen now-“The way that I let you completely dominate me weren’t just accidents. That I wanted all of those things too.” She looks pleading now, but somehow strong and defiant all the same. 

 

It makes Mycroft bridge the gap that’s between them and pull her face firmly to his. She holds onto him, whilst he kisses her passionately and it is like spring and then summer flare all around them, making the flowers of their love bloom right there in the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this. :)


End file.
